Morning Ritual

 

Mornings, much as I am slow to approach them, bring barn blessings and pasture prayers. Our lovliest stallion wuffles soft fog into the cold air, nostrils pressed to the bars of his stall as if today might be the first day I will forget him in his solitude. Buckets shared with the elders, mealtime grace breathed over their bodies as I move to deliver their breakfast. My colt waits at the pasture gate, sometimes with the stoic faith that comes from knowing the routine, others with youthful impatience that makes my feet slower, for I am not one that rewards the clanging bell of his hoof on the gate. Then he is let into the pen where he can apply himself to the feed required for any young, growing thing that we wish to bear fruit someday. And once all are provided for, I carry the last pan of pellets, swinging it like a thurible as I walk into the my church, the pasture, and set it at the feet of the draft mare. The herd knows this routine, most content to wait in the sun's benediction. They live in a state of plenty, round bales up the hill gleaming like golden coins, a tithe given so they never hunger. Six plushly coated supplicants stand quiet, absorbing the warmth of the post dawn light against thick coats that ripple in the faint breeze like wheat kissed by the wind. I join them, back to the sun, holding space for the draft mare so she may enjoy her eucharist in peace. My hip cocks to match the herd, eyes softening the world to watercolors, breaths slowing. There is no hurry in our congregation, our fellowship still and wordless, even when one of the mares slants a glance at me to be sure I'm still aware enough. For maybe this once, if she takes a step toward the big mare and I, an exception will be made. I turn my body a half step in her direction, her whiskey eyes and bright pricked ears always watching the humans for signs of predation. She knows our kind of old, and while we have known each other over a decade, today, I may pounce. No, I silently say, as quietly as my body allows. I shall not betray you. But neither shall I allow you to interrupt the quiet moments of your herd mate. Be at peace, little sister. Her head drops, turns away in awareness. I breathe. She joins us in the moment once more. Even when the big mare is done, walking away from the pan she has cleaned every crumb from, I wait. Until she has gone toward the herd, until they have accepted her back into their ranks. Then I breathe in the moment of prayer one last time, release my shoulders, exhale, and leave them to their day, blessed beyond words to have lingered in a ritual beyond the reach of most of mankind. I live in willing, devoted service to the herd, blessed to have lingered in their company for one more morning.